


Hoist the Colours

by littledragon94



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean, M/M, Pirate AU, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:19:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4468514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledragon94/pseuds/littledragon94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 1700s and King Robert I is on the throne of England during the Golden Age of Piracy. In a bid to unite their forces, Robert seeks an alliance with King Viserys of Spain, but the sea is a dangerous place and messages can quite easily get lost. Across the Atlantic, Governor Stark's daughters are missing, and the threat of the Great Kraken looms in the heart of every seafaring merchant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

Prince Renly’s heeled footsteps echoed on the marbled floor of the throne room as he made his way to the council chamber. As he swept into the room, a royal guard opened the door with a small bow of the head, and an easy smile brightened his face as he greeted his fellow council members.

'Good morning all!' The other men hurried to stand. 'Please Pycelle, don’t strain yourself on my account.' Renly gestured for the stooped old man to remain seated before he passed out from exertion.

'Thank you, Prince Renly,' he wheezed, his bony hands clutching the table in front of him.

'Good morning, Prince Renly,' replied Jon Arryn, Robert’s most trusted advisor. Renly settled into his chair beside the King’s empty ornate one, and the rest of the lords and councillors followed suit.

'Where is the King?'

Lord Arryn pursed his lips. 'The King has sent word that he will be along shortly.'

Renly nodded, well aware of his brother’s time-keeping abilities. Robert was probably still hungover in bed, or just squeezing himself into some presentable clothes. While the other men talked in low tones about Lord So-and-so’s wife or daughter, or something vastly uninteresting to Renly, he passed the time by inspecting his clothing for marks or stray threads. His court wardrobe was mostly composed of variations upon the black and gold Baratheon colours and stag crest, and his silk coat embroidered with gold lace was no different. His breeches were a rich velvet, with silk stockings and buckled shoes as was the fashion. And Prince Renly was nothing but fashionable. 

In truth, Renly despised his brother’s council meetings, yet as the second-in-line until Robert sired a trueborn son (all the more difficult when he refused to marry), it was expected that he attend.

The meetings were a dull affair with little being discussed that hadn’t been decided by Parliament a few days previous. Renly already knew that he was to be sent by ship and carriage to Madrid where he would meet with King Viserys III of Spain to propose a peace treaty, signed by King Robert I of England. He would also be required to return with the Spanish king’s reply, leading either to a new era of peace or reigniting the centuries-old war between the nations.

Heavy footsteps preceded King Robert’s arrival in the council chamber. Renly leisurely uncrossed his legs, pushing himself to stand a moment after the rest of the council members as their ruling monarch burst into the room.

'For God’s sake, Pycelle, stop trying to stand before you keel over!' Robert boomed. He strode over and threw himself into the chair at the head of the table. 'Sit down, the lot of you!'

Renly sat back down, waiting for the chorus of ‘Sire's and 'Your Majesty's to abate. Though Renly was the spitting image of Robert, their demeanours could not be more different. Robert was bawdy and brash, whereas Renly was charismatic and charming. Renly appreciated the finer things in life, where his brother only appreciated wines and ales, at least since his coronation. Much to the chagrin of his Parliament.

'Sire,' Jon Arryn began, 'our first order of business is the treaty with Spain.'

'A bad idea,' Robert announced, waving for a goblet of wine. A servant hurried over to pour. 'The moment we get into bed with those Targaryen whores they’ll stab us in the backs and invade.'

'Sire,' Pycelle croaked. 'Parliament has agreed that for the good of the country a treaty with Spain must be proposed.'

The other advisors clucked their agreement like a coop of chickens.

'Yes, yes, the country is too unstable to face another war with the Spanish. I’ve already signed your damn scrap of paper!' Robert huffed, taking a sealed scroll of parchment from the pocket of his doublet. He pushed it down the table to Renly, who picked it up.

'And if Viserys does not agree to the terms?' Renly asked.

'He must,' Norren, another Parliament plant, insisted. 'Even with the ships that King Viserys' marriage to the Martell girl brought, the Spanish fleet is not strong enough to withstand a direct attack from our ships, regardless of the impact a war would have on our citizens here.'

'Reports of piracy along the Spanish coast are becoming much more common, some of our merchant ships have even been attacked. The survivors of the attacks claim the pirates are from Singapore - Martell ships, probably,' Theobold added. 'If we are to retain control of shipping routes, we must treat with the Spanish, and stop their raids.'

'Prince Renly, you will be sailing aboard  _ HMS Fury _ ,' Lord Swyft informed him. 'The captain, Cortnay Penrose will meet you at the Royal Dockyard in three days time, ready to sail on the first high tide.'

Renly nodded his understanding.

'Moving on, sire,' Randyll Tarly interjected. 'We received a letter this morning from the  _ HMS Lioness _ . Commodore Lannister sends word that he is closing in on the  _ Great Kraken _ . He hopes to have Balon Greyjoy clapped in irons for his meeting with the gallows before the beginning of winter, providing the winds remain favourable.'

Renly let his mind wander while the lords discussed how best to publicly execute the Pirate Lord Balon Greyjoy. The mere mention of his name was enough to give Renly a sharp reminder of just how unsafe the seas really were, even on a venture such as he was about to go on.

* * *

 

Three days hence, Prince Renly’s carriage pulled up at the Royal Naval dockyard in Plymouth. The doorman hopped out and assisted Renly’s descent from the carriage.

'Good afternoon, Prince Renly.'

Renly looked around, spotting a white-wigged Royal Naval officer in a blue frock coat with gold laced buttons, flanked by two midshipmen, also in blue frock coats. 'Captain Penrose, I presume?'

'Yes, sir. It is an honour to have you aboard the  _ Fury _ .'

Renly decided that it would be rude to say that the honour would be more appreciated elsewhere, so simply thanked the captain.

'If you’d like to follow me, sir, you can meet the crew before settling into your cabin. Your belongings will be brought along shortly.' Penrose gestured to the two lads beside him, who jumped into action collecting Renly’s baggage. 

As they walked through the dockyard, Penrose explained some of the details of the ship, going on about how many crew were on board, how many supplies she could carry, what the weather was due to be like on their journey. Renly was more concerned with not stepping in puddles of salt water and trying not to inhale the various smells assaulting his senses than hearing about the exploits of the ship.

Unlike his eldest brother Stannis, Admiral of the Royal Navy, Renly had never been one for sea travel, especially since his parents had died in a shipwreck when he was a child. He sometimes wished that Robert had never won his crown during the civil war, so that Renly wouldn’t have to now be sent as a gesture of good faith to Spain with the treaty. He mentally cursed Robert and his warhammer as he wobbled his way up the rickety gangplank to board the  _ Fury _ .

' _ HMS Fury _ is a first-rate ship with one hundred guns and three decks,' Captain Penrose continued, once they were on board. Renly looked around in awe of the four masts rising high into the sky above, the canvas sails rolled and stowed while the ship was docked. At the stern, the proud golden Baratheon stag emblazoned on a field of black rippled in the breeze. On the upper deck, the ship’s company waited for inspection by the Captain and Renly.

'Prince Renly, this is Lieutenant Grandison, my First Lieutenant.' Penrose gestured to the first of the men before moving down the line of frock coated officers. 'If for any reason I am unavailable, Grandison will be able to help you.' Renly shook the man’s hand, doing his bit as the charming prince the people expected him to be. 'Florent, Second Lieutenant. Farring, Third Lieutenant. Captain Wylde of the Marines.'

The list went on and on, Renly quickly regretted the idea of shaking hands with each one.

'Doctor Pylos, Father Cressen the Chaplain.’ They had reached the last few now and Renly hoped that the good Captain wouldn’t decide to introduce the non-commissioned seamen or they would be there all day. 'Midshipmen Buckler, Farring, and Thorn.'

Renly shook the last hand, calloused from years of ropework like all the other hands he had just touched, yet he was surprised by how slender the hand was. The boy - or young man, rather - was a head shorter than Renly, who was taller than most, and met Renly’s eyes directly. There was something about the young midshipman’s thick brown curls, almost feminine features and near golden eyes that caught Renly’s attention.

Renly was startled out of his daze by Penrose. 'Prince Renly, Midshipman Thorn will be your boy for the journey: effectively, if there is anything you need just ask young Loras and he will see to it.'

'Anything at all, sir,' Loras repeated, a small smirk on his face.

Renly was sure that if Penrose had seen the smirk, the young gentleman would have been severely reprimanded. The lad's confidence intrigued him, excited him even. Though maybe it was the anticipation of the venture that made his pulse race. 'I’ll be sure to take you up on that offer, Midshipman Thorn.'

Penrose continued. 'We will be setting sail on the first tide tomorrow morning, Your Highness. You do not have to be up for the departure, though you will most certainly be woken up by the ruckus.  My apologies in advance. You will be accommodated in my quarters. Midshipman Thorn, if you would show Prince Renly down below.'

Loras stepped out of formation, moving towards a set of steps in the deck. 'If you’d like to follow me, Prince Renly.'

Captain Penrose dismissed the other sailors and began barking orders to prepare the ship for the following day’s voyage.

Perhaps, Renly thought as he followed Loras down below, being a prince on a ship wasn’t so bad after all.


	2. two

'Jory said Admiral Baratheon is one of the most famous pirate catchers ever!' Jeyne squealed, pausing in the brushing of Sansa’s thick auburn hair. 'Next to Commodore Lannister, of course.'

'I can’t believe he’s coming here to Port Royal to have dinner with my father!' Sansa grinned. The news of Admiral Stannis Baratheon’s impending arrival in Port Royal was the most exciting thing to have happened to the two girls in the last few months.

'It’s a shame it’s not his brother, Prince Renly,' Jeyne sighed, resuming brushing. 'He is far better looking, don’t you think? Jory said the Admiral looks like he’s not smiled in years.'

'Jeyne!' Sansa giggled, meeting Jeyne’s eye in the mirror. 'You can’t say that, he’s the King’s brother.'

'And if you make a good impression, he might mention you to his other brother and invite you to London,' Jeyne winked.

Sansa blushed. She couldn’t deny that the idea hadn’t crossed her mind, nor that she hadn’t thought about how she might react if the offer were to be made. She had thought that all hopes of her meeting a prince or a lord had vanished when her father had shipped the whole Stark family halfway across the world from London to Jamaica for his new position as Governor, but perhaps not. 

She would miss Port Royal if she moved back to London, Sansa mused. She would miss her walks with Jeyne down to the docks where she would talk with the merchants and traders, and hear their tales of where they had travelled from and all the things they had seen at sea.

'What do you think it’s like?' Sansa murmured, lost in her own thoughts.

'Courting Prince Renly? I’m sure it would be fabulous, he is so handsome.'

'No,' Sansa smiled. 'Life on the high seas. I imagine it is difficult. Perhaps that’s why the Admiral never smiles, though I’m sure it’s an exciting adventure.'

Jeyne parted Sansa’s hair and frowned. 'Not an adventure I would want.'

'Really? But just think of all the stories you hear down at the docks of brave sailors and swashbuckling pirates and mermaids in the deep!'

'But it’s so dangerous and there are no laws among pirates. It’s no place for a lady, Sansa.'

'You sound like my mother. Of course there are laws among pirates! There’s the Pirate Code, laid down by Morgan and Bartholomew.' Sansa looked through the drawers of her vanity cabinet for a necklace to wear that day. 'And there are plenty of lady pirates out there.'

'Yes, but how many pirates actually follow this “Pirate Code”?'

'Garlan the Gallant does,' Sansa pointed out. 'And by all accounts the rest of the  _ Flor de la Mar  _ crew do too.'

'The what?'

'Honestly Jeyne, do you not listen to any of the stories at the docks, or do you just watch Jory the whole time?'

Jeyne blushed and put the brush down on the vanity, done with Sansa’s hair. 'I’m listening now.'

'The  _ Flor de la Mar  _ used to be a Spanish ship and it’s captained by the Queen of Thorns. Rumour has it that she used to be a French noble who was betrothed to a Targaryen, but the night before her wedding she gathered a crew, commandeered a ship and fled.'

'Why would she flee?' Jeyne wondered, moving to make Sansa’s bed. 'She could have been royalty. Spanish royalty, but royalty all the same.'

Sansa shrugged, picking out a necklace of blue opals. 'They say that the lure of the sea was too strong for her to resist.'

'Why is she called the “Queen of Thorns”?'

'Because she is one of the most fearsome lady pirates on the seas. Her flag is a skull with a thorned rose growing from its eyes.'

'That sounds horrible. And this Garlan the Gallant, who is he? He can’t be very gallant if he’s a pirate.' Jeyne smoothed the duvet over the bed.

'He is one of the crew on the  _ Flor de la Mar _ ,' Sansa explained, turning to face Jeyne as she became more animated in her storytelling. 'Mr Cassel said he can fight four men at the same time and win, and that he gave his heart to a mermaid who promised to love him as long as he was good and honourable.'

Jeyne was enraptured. She perched on the edge of Sansa’s bed, the pillow she had been fluffing stilled in her hands. Sansa was delighted she could tell Jeyne all of the stories she had heard. Her mother disapproved of Sansa’s interest in pirate tales, and Sansa was sure she wouldn’t be pleased that Sansa was telling them all to her lady’s maid.

'Then there’s the Flower Knight and the Golden Rose.'

Jeyne scoffed. 'The Flower Knight? That doesn’t sound very pirate-like.'

'He is an exceptional swordsman, the stories say. The Flower Knight and the Golden Rose are brother and sister, and they’re both as good as each other.'

'If he’s a pirate then why is he knight?'

'The stories say that when he was only sixteen, he fought for King Robert in the civil war and was knighted by the King himself after the battle, before the sea called to him. And because he is kind and noble, and the only man alive who can rival Jaime Lannister in combat and looks. Old Nan at the docks says he swore on the Pirate Code itself never to harm innocent women or children. Ever.'

'What else did Old Nan say?' Jeyne asked sceptically.

'She told me about the time the Golden Rose snuck aboard Commodore Lannister’s ship,  _ HMS Lioness _ , and made off with a whole chest of jewels from a seized pirate ship, and all that was left in its place was a little golden rosebud.'

'How can one girl carry an entire chest of treasure?'

'I don’t know, Jeyne,' Sansa huffed, 'it’s what Old Nan said.'

'Well I don’t think they sound like proper pirates.'

'If they aren’t proper pirates then why are they the enemies of the  _ Great Kraken _ , the  _ Iron Victory _ , and the  _ Silence _ ?'

'What’s the  _ Great Kraken _ ?'

'Gods, Jeyne, do you ever listen?'

The door opened and Sansa’s mother, Catelyn, entered with two boxes in her arms. 'Are you two girls gossiping again?'

Jeyne quickly got to her feet, replaced the pillow in her arms at the head of the bed and resumed her ministrations at the bed covers. 'Not at all, Lady Stark. Miss Sansa was just telling me all about the  _ Great Kraken _ .'

Sansa shook her head at Jeyne behind her mother’s back. Catelyn turned to her daughter and pursed her lips, placing the two boxes down on the window sill. 'Sansa, what have I told you about those pirate tales? They are unfitting for a young lady to even think about.'

'Not all of them, Mother,' Sansa argued.

Jeyne nodded. 'Yes, the  _ Flor de la Mar _ seems like a rather romantic tale.'

'There is nothing romantic about piracy, Miss Poole!' Catelyn interrupted. 'Now go and fetch Arya for me, I have a gift for the both of you.'

Jeyne curtsied and hurried out of the room to fetch Sansa’s younger sister.

'What is it?' Sansa asked, joining her mother at the window sill.

'A new dress, specifically for the dinner with Admiral Baratheon.' Catelyn unfolded the silk dress to show Sansa.

'Oh, thank you mother!' Sansa clapped, jumping up and embracing her mother.

'Your father seemed to think that one of your existing dresses would be acceptable, but I changed his mind,' Catelyn whispered, with a small conspiratorial smile.

A stomping on the steps announced Arya’s arrival, and a moment later she burst through the door, her hair wild and her clothes dirty.

'No, not another dress!' she huffed, spotting the garment that Sansa was holding against herself.

Arya and Sansa were like night and day to each other. Sansa had always loved dresses and wanted to be a Lady like her mother, whereas Arya wore their brother Bran’s clothes and ran around wanting to be a sailor like their cousin Jon.

'Oh yes, missy!' Catelyn barked. 'You will try this dress on and wear it for the Admiral’s visit or I will not let you into town for the next fortnight.'

'But I won’t be able to see Mycah then,' Arya pouted.

'Exactly.'

Arya groaned in defeat. 'Fine.'

'Jeyne, help Arya into her dress first.'

Arya trudged behind the screen and began undressing. 'I can dress myself,' she snapped at Jeyne when she offered to help. 

'Not when you have a corset to do up,' Sansa called gleefully.

Arya whimpered. 'But I don’t  _ need _ to wear a corset. I’ve got nothing to put in it!'

'Arya!' Catelyn snapped. 'Typical. I have one daughter who talks of noble pirates and the other who wants to be a sailor, I am quite sure that the Admiral’s daughter is a fine young lady who doesn’t dream of such outrageous things.'

'I bet she’s really boring,' Arya snarked. 'Ow!'

'Sorry,' Jeyne apologised. 'The corset needs to go on quite tight.'

'I still need to breathe though!'

'I didn’t know the Admiral had a daughter,' Sansa interjected. 'Is she coming to dinner too?'

‘No, I believe she and the Duchess Selyse will be remaining in London.' Catelyn replied. ‘The sea is no place for a young lady, Princess or not.’ 

Arya stepped out from behind the screen looking unhappy in the narrow waisted bodice and wide skirt.

'There, that’s not so bad is it?' Catelyn admired, ignoring the murderous look on her youngest daughter’s face. 'Your turn, Sansa!'


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin Lannister, a privateer-turned-commodore, is closing in on the pirate ship Goodheart. It is nowhere near the prize of the Great Kraken, but if Tywin can rid the world of one more pirate then it will have been a successful day.

'We are closing in on the  _ Goodheart _ , Commodore,' Lieutenant Marbrand reported.

From where Commodore Tywin Lannister was stood on the raised quarterdeck of his ship, the  _ HMS Lioness _ , he could see the thin mast of their quarry. The  _ Goodheart  _ was a pirate ship from the Middle East, and was in the  _ Lioness's  _ sights because she had strayed a little too close to the East India Trading Company's shipping lanes. 

'We have the wind?' The Commodore asked his First Lieutenant.

'Aye, sir. 12 knots on our side, with full sail we should be on them within the hour.'

'Inform Mister Broom to ready the port side cannons. We will round on their starboard side and cut them off quickly. Ensure Sergeant Vylarr's men are ready for action.'

'Aye, Commodore.' The man straightened himself up and bellowed orders across the deck. ‘Clear for action, port side! Marines, ready for battle!’ 

Men leapt into action below, running to open gun hatches and carry powder. Tywin ignored the bustle and stared out across the horizon where there was not even a speck of land visible. The crew had been on open sea for a good three months, stopping in ports to resupply only twice in that time. Tywin was a stickler for hard work, as anyone who had ever met him could vouch. Though since he had been given the honour of a commission in the King's Navy, rather than continuing as a privateer, his thirst for recognition and infamy had become consuming. 

He still did the same job of hunting pirates, but now he had a title and some land back in England where his family remained while he was at sea. His family, that was, that weren't on board with him. His son, Jaime, was a Corporal in the marines on board. Tywin's other son, a dwarf named Tyrion, was the ship's scribe. To Tywin's ire, Tyrion could not get a job elsewhere due to the stigma of his condition, so Tywin took it upon himself to ensure that his youngest child made himself useful.

'Mister Crakehall, adjust course two points to larboard.'

'Aye, sir,' the brawny helmsman replied. 'Adjusting course two points to larboard.' With a flick of his wrist the seasoned sailor spun the wheel to the left, and waited for the wind to change in the sails before straightening up the wheel once more.

Tywin plucked his spyglass from his pocket and examined the  _ Goodheart  _ with a trained cold green eye.

The sloop had maybe eight cannon at most - neither as long range as the  _ Lioness' _ , nor with as much damaging power - or the little ship would barely be able to move in the water. As long as the  _ Lioness  _ stayed out of range when they passed the  _ Goodheart's  _ starboard side, they would have no problem cutting the sloop off and unloading a violent barrage of cannon-fire down on the pirates. That was, if the  _ Goodheart  _ didn't surrender first, which would be the smartest thing for them to do.

But pirates were not smart. That was what Tywin had found. When faced with annihilation or self-preservation (ending in imprisonment or death, nevertheless), the pirates would undoubtedly attempt to go down in a blaze of glory rather than face punishment for their crimes.

The gunners loaded the port side cannons, while the red coated marines fixed bayonets and ensured their muskets were ready. 

'Two more points to larboard, Mister Crakehall.'

‘Aye, sir.’ The helmsman grunted. The bow of the  _ Lioness _ cut through the waves towards her quarry.

‘Gun crews ready, sir!’ Lieutenant Connington announced, his tied back red hair ruffled by exertion.

'Very good.' The Commodore paused for several minutes, analysing the various components of his attack: the wind, the tide, the number of cannon the  _ Goodheart  _ could possess compared to the  _ Lioness _ , the number of men aboard both ships, and whether it would be more prudent to sink the  _ Goodheart  _ or to sail her back to Portsmouth on their return. 'Fetch Tyrion, if you will, Lieutenant. Tell him to bring his quills.'

'Aye, sir.' Marbrand trotted down below deck, leaving the good captain to his tactics.

Tyrion emerged on deck several minutes later and waddled towards his father, his short legs worked to counter the sway of the ship. Tywin glared at the  _ Goodheart  _ while his youngest offspring struggled to clamber up the steep steps to the raised quarterdeck. A young adolescent followed Tyrion, arms laden with quills, ink, a ledger, and a board on which to lean. The lad was a bumbling excuse for a midshipman, but served his purpose as Tyrion’s servant well. Perhaps, Tywin mused, young Midshipman Payne might be better suited to the role of steward than to a life of command. 

‘You summoned me, father?’ Tyrion drawled. He stood facing Tywin, his head level with the commodore’s ribs, one eyes as green as his father’s and the other as black as the Baratheon banner that flew from their stern. Podrick bustled about setting up Tyrion’s equipment.

Tywin did not turn towards his son. ‘I have an entry for the ship’s log.’

‘How thrilling.’

Tywin clenched his strong jaw at the sarcasm and waited until Tyrion was settled on a small stool, ready to write. ‘We are closing in on the  _ Goodheart _ . She is a pirate vessel from the Middle East. By my estimates she stands at 80 tonnes with no more than eight cannon to our 26. The wind is on our starboard quarter and our position lies 20 miles west of Vigo. My intention is to engage the  _ Goodheart  _ and, if she does not surrender, to sink her.’

Tyrion scratched out the dictation in a neat and efficient hand. ‘Very concise, father. Though could I suggest a little more imagination? It's a very dull read, you see.’

‘No, you cannot.’ Tywin clipped. ‘That will be all, thank you, Tyrion. You may now crawl back into your hole while the rest of us continue to wage this war.’

‘How very gracious of you. I do wish I could help but I'm afraid my aim is less than poor.’ Tyrion mock saluted his father and stood. ‘Come along, Pod. We don't want to get shot now, do we?’

‘No, sir,’ Podrick hurriedly gathered everything up and trailed after Tyrion.

Tywin clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Mister Marbrand, fire a warning shot across her stern. Mister Piper, keep an eye for a signal of surrender.’

Marbrand called out the order whilst a young midshipman peered through a looking glass at the port railing. The cannon shot flew just short of the  _ Goodheart _ and splashed into the sea. There was no sign of surrender from the entirely outmatched vessel.

‘They’re running out their guns, sir!’ Piper reported.

‘The idiocy of pirates never fails to amaze me,’ Tywin frowned. ‘Very well. Mister Marbrand, kindly acquaint these ingrates with the contents of our powder room.’

‘Aye sir,’ Marbrand nodded. ‘Gun crews! Fire as you bear!’

Across the gun deck the orders to fire bore fruit as shot after shot barrelled into the hull of the  _ Goodheart _ . Deck splintered and gun ports were blown apart. Men and parts of men were thrown into the air by the blasts, their cries echoed over the short space of sea. Commodore Lannister remained unmoved by the devastation and merely ordered the helmsman to bring them within range of the marines’ muskets.

‘Marines, present!’

The red coats put their weapons to their shoulders and trained their muzzles on the crew of the  _ Goodheart _ . Tywin pulled his gaze from the almost ruined sloop to spot the golden head of his son amongst the other marines. Jaime was tall and handsome, fearless and bold in the face of imminent battle. Tywin had hoped he would follow him into command, but Jaime had little patience for the subtleties and politics that came with rank, preferring to shoot and fight his way through life.

‘Fire!’ Sergeant Vylarr ordered, and bullets rained down on the  _ Goodheart _ in a lethal downpour. The few crew with their wits and limbs remaining attempted to fight back with their limited arsenal and some lucky shots nicked holes in woodwork and men alike.

Tywin shielded his eyes as a delayed cannon shot blasted across the deck of the  _ Lioness _ and almost knocked off his bicorn hat. ‘Sink her!’ he bellowed over the yells and cries of the battle. He drew his pistol from his belt and took a shot at the  _ Goodheart _ .

‘Sir!’ Marbrand yelled, blood spattered across his face. ‘Jaime’s been hit!’ The tall lieutenant pointed his sword towards a jumble of men where Jaime’s blond hair stood out starkly against the red coats. He was still alive, judging by his groans of pain, but the parts of his face not covered in bright red blood was ashen.

Anger swelled within Tywin. Anger at the  _ Goodheart _ , at pirates in general, and most chiefly at why the damned ship wasn’t at the bottom of the sea by now. ‘Get him below!’

‘Swyft! Westerling! Help me with him!’ Marbrand ordered two nearby sailors to help him carry the injured marine below decks to where Doctor Creylen would see to him. 

Tywin picked off a sailor on the  _ Goodheart _ ’s deck. ‘Mister Connington! I want that ship sunk, do you hear me?’

‘Aye sir!’ Face as red as his hair, Connington boomed an order to fire. The cannon blasts shook the deck and what remaining crew the  _ Goodheart _ had leapt into the sea as the hull of the sloop crunched under its own unstable weight.

Tywin watched as the masts crumbled and men were dragged under by the inescapable blankets of sail. The men on deck cheered at their victory. Tywin carefully sheathed his pistol and stepped down from the quarterdeck, ignoring the damage caused to his ship and the bodies strewn across the deck. ‘Sergeant, if you see a pirate in the water, shoot him.’

‘Aye sir,’ Vylarr nodded. ‘Eyes on the water, lads! No survivors!’

The Commodore’s heeled shoes clipped across the victorious deck and down the ladder to the sick bay where the cheers of sailors were replaced by the pained screams of the injured. The lower decks were cramped and he had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the deckhead. The smell of flesh and vomit hung in the air as he pushed past the walking wounded to find his eldest son lying unconscious on the surgeon’s table. Tyrion stood beside Jaime, clutching at his forearm and murmuring reassurance.

‘I have managed to staunch the bleeding, sir,’ the doctor informed him, apron and arms painted with the blood of his patient. ‘The wound runs deep, but I can do no more for him presently.’

Tywin stood over his son and rested a hand on his uninjured shoulder. He had been struck by shrapnel across the right side of his body, it appeared. His face was pale and slick with sweat, and his breathing was laboured. Without a word, Tywin left the cabin and swiftly made his way back up on deck. 

‘Lieutenant, get this deck cleared up and set a course for England.’

Marbrand blinked in surprise. ‘England, sir? But what of the  _ Kraken _ ?’

Tywin took a menacing step towards his most senior officer. ‘Pirates be damned! I will not see my son die from a poor shot chasing that Greyjoy scum!’

‘Aye, sir,’ Marbrand gulped. ‘Plumm, gather some hands and clear this deck. Prepare to make sail!’

Tywin turned his back on the action of the deck and glared at the wreckage of the  _ Goodheart _ , hatred of everything it stood for bubbling in his heart. 


End file.
